


The Secret World of Bilbo Baggins

by NavyGreen



Category: Kari-gurashi no Arietti | The Secret World of Arrietty, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Account Anniversary, Alternate Universe, Arrietty Au, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, Child Frodo Baggins, Fluff, Gen, Hobbits are Borrowers, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spiders, Thorin is a Softie, Young Fíli and Kíli
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-24 23:53:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30080256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NavyGreen/pseuds/NavyGreen
Summary: Frodo pouted as he swung a bag over his shoulder, though he found no dimmer within the spark of joy beneath his heart. The kitchen, while certainly no living room, was still outside the small walls of their Smial – a grand, dark place of mysterious depth and adventure, only briefly and sparsely illuminated by Bilbo when a story nudged particularly hard on his mind. Perhaps, after their trip to the kitchen, Bilbo would take him to the living room, or a bedroom, or – though slim – even outside, beyond the border of the property. Bilbo, while protective, was not strict, and thus though Frodo frequented the area beneath the dark leaves of their home, the world beyond that was unmapped.Then, Frodo could adventure like Bilbo! Could face dragons and dogs and hurricanes without a spark of fear! Could even face a human bean!
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Frodo Baggins, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> The Arrietty Au that literally no one asked for!
> 
> This was meant to be for my account's first work anniversary (one year! woo!), but I'm slightly late - Uni really keeps you busy! So, here's chapter one. I fully plan to continue and finish this work - though it may take me a while (feel free to check out my other works). 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! Happy one year and happy Hobbit fandom!

On Seven Durin Road, tucked under a forgotten bramble bush by the back porch stairs, sat a small mound. This mound wasn’t home to worms or centipedes or bugs alike, but instead housed a family of two Hobbits. It housed a hearth, a bookshelf, and a mighty, well-stocked kitchen – all the comforts a pair of Hobbits might require.

The moon rose, and shone in its gentle brilliance, excited for the night – for tonight would be Frodo’s first night of borrowing.

* * *

**Frodo**

“Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo said as he pulled a cloak around himself. The cloth – cut from a forgotten, untouched bolt of dark linen Bilbo had found some weeks ago, settled around him comfortably. “Do you think we’ll reach the living room tonight?”

Bilbo shook his head, curls swaying, and pulled Sting from its place above the mantel. “Not tonight, dear Frodo,” he said. He admired the pin briefly; all its scratches and little marks from his younger years – of which Frodo had heard only a few origin stories. “We’ll stay in the kitchen; much safer.”

Frodo pouted as he swung a bag over his shoulder, though he found no dimmer within the spark of joy beneath his heart. The kitchen, while certainly no living room, was still outside the small walls of their Smial – a grand, dark place of mysterious depth and adventure, only briefly and sparsely illuminated by Bilbo when a story nudged particularly hard on his mind. Perhaps, after their trip to the kitchen, Bilbo would take him to the living room, or a bedroom, or – though slim – even _outside_ , beyond the border of the property. Bilbo, while protective, was not strict, and thus though Frodo frequented the area beneath the dark leaves of their home, the world beyond that was unmapped.

Then, Frodo could adventure like Bilbo! Could face dragons and dogs and hurricanes without a spark of fear! Could even face a _human bean!_

Courage and excitement blossomed within his chest, wrapping around the supports of his ribs until he almost couldn’t breathe.

“Now Frodo,” Bilbo said, hand wrapped around the handle of their back door. Behind it, Frodo knew, was the connection of their Smial to the _big_ Smial, where Bilbo navigated through cracks in the wall and hidden entrances. So many times had he watched his Uncle disappear into its darkness, forced to wait anxiously until he returned. No more! So close – by the blessing of the sun of tomorrow Frodo would be a Hobbit proper. “Calm down, my boy.”

Frodo forced the air from his lungs and wrapped his hand in the bag beside him. The ache in his chest loosened somewhat, and he nodded up at his Uncle.

“It’s important you stay by me,” he said. “nothing reckless. In, and out, understand?”

There stood the Bilbo of Frodo’s tutoring – Mister Bilbo, stern, experienced, and careful. An oak alone within a valley, standing firm and unyielding to the world in which he inhabited, growing ever taller, ever stronger.

Frodo stood taller, puffed his chest, and nodded. Despite his efforts, the strength of courage filled his bones, and he stood unswaying, unlike the small sapling he would soon leave behind.

“Yes, Uncle Bilbo, of course Uncle Bilbo.”

Bilbo tilted his chin up and grinned. There – the Uncle Bilbo of his childhood, storyteller and adventurer of unnumbered tales.

“Alright, we’re off then.”

Bilbo turned the brass handle to the back door, and it opened with a slow, quiet creak.

* * *

“How can anything be so _big_ , Bilbo?” Frodo whispered.

His voice travelled up the walls flanking them, stretching ever on into the looming darkness far above their heads. The only light emerged dimly from Bilbo’s small bulb, mounted upon his shoulder with a few careful straps. It flickered every so often, and each time Frodo almost tripped with the shock of the darkness leaping towards them. It remained faithful, however, despite its struggles. Bilbo, in comparison, barely flinched at its lapses.

“The humans are much larger than us, Frodo,” Bilbo replied as he guided them to a set of nails imbedded into the wall, each slightly higher than the one before. He stepped upon the closest rung and gestured for Frodo to do the same. “Much larger than us, or the cat, or even the bush.”

Frodo gasped. “The bush- are you sure Bilbo?”

“Quite sure.”

Bilbo stepped upon the next rung, slighter higher than the one before. His feet made no sound against the worn metal; as if the silence surrounding them swallowed it up. Then he stepped onto another, and another, repeatedly until he and Frodo both were ascending the wall.

After a few moments of quiet, as their bare feet bounced along the nails, Frodo said, “do you think I’ll ever see one, Bilbo? A human bean?”

Despite his inability to view Bilbo’s face, Frodo could imagine the quick blink and soft, considering scowl. “I hope not, Frodo. It’s for the best.”

Frodo frowned and kept his eyes down at the rungs passing under him. _Perhaps there is a reason Bilbo’s stories rarely mention a human_ , he thought mutely.

Quiet moments passed, uninterrupted until-

“What’s that!”

“Hush, Frodo,” Bilbo whispered firmly. He spun on his heel, hand on the wall while the other shot out to grab Frodo’s shoulder.

They both paused. Frodo pressed his hand against the wall and tried to control the slight trembling in his legs. He looked down, into the darkness.

“Spiders,” Bilbo said almost silently. Their scuttling bounced its way up to them, and their low hisses filled Frodo with dread. “They shouldn’t bother us. Come, we’re close now.”

Bilbo met Frodo’s eyes, unflinching and filled with nothing but determination. He nodded once, then continued up the rungs. Above them, a shaft of dim light – unlike Bilbo’s bulb, and instead gentler and blue-tinted – escaped a crack and illuminated the opposing wall.

Frodo swallowed, forced his eyes up, and followed after his Uncle.

Eventually, soon after Frodo’s knees began to ache, they reached a small platform, seemingly carved into the main wall. There, little shelves were similarly carved, and in them sat small objects and trinkets. A leaf, long and attached on one side by sewn thread, covered the glowing crack. Frodo scanned the veins within it.

Bilbo reached into one of the shelves and pulled out a spool of thread. “These are the tools I use to do my borrowing. Hooks, rope, knives.”

Frodo stared with wide eyes. “Did you borrow them?”

“My mother did, when she was still alive and _we_ still lived in the end of a bag. I have simply inherited them, and eventually, so will you.”

Frodo looked over the shelved objects, and the warmth of adventure burst within him. He would use these all, someday.

“Now, remember your wits, Frodo.”

Frodo turned to him, and Bilbo carefully flipped the leaf covering the crack in the wall – the _world_ of _human beans_. His Uncle gestured for Frodo to slip though, and so with a proud huff, he did.

For a moment there was squeezing, and the hard touch of wood against his sides. Thankfully, whether due to time or Bilbo’s efforts, any potential splinters had been carved or rounded off, ensuring the squeeze wasn’t as tight or as sharp as it might have been once. The dim blue glow flooded his eyes, and Frodo was forced to depend on his hands as he scrabbled forwards, ever forwards until-

“Careful my boy!” Bilbo said behind him. A hand twisted around the fabric of his cloak and tugged him straight.

Frodo blinked, eyes stinging, until the intensity of the blue glow subsided, and he could view upon the world before him.

He gasped sharply and listened as it doubled into the grand, spacious room.

Great rises rose from a polished floor, reaching up and up, as if they were the trunks of trees. Smaller, yet no less grand, blocks rose from the floor similarly, topped with all sorts of containers, both clear and opaque. Curtains, unimaginably long, hung upon clear walls, and between their parted folds came the blue glow, illuminating the room in a calm, peaceful light.

It was- it was _huge._

“Uncle Bilbo,” he mumbled, unsure what to say. His eyes scanned the platform beneath his feet. White, though in places chipped to reveal a dark wood underneath, it stretched left and right, lining walls of solid, though transparent, walls, which held behind them giant, round plates.

He turned, careful on his feet, and traces their edges with his eyes. “How-”

There! Another Hobbit! With dark hair and eyes round like-

“It’s me, look Bilbo!”

Bilbo, busy with lowering thread down the great cliff they stood upon, glanced over his shoulder. A smile graced his lips. “It’s glass. Wonderful thing; can keep out bugs and weather but can be seen through like air.”

“Why haven’t we borrowed it? It would be wonderful back home!” He pressed his hand against it – his fingers turned slightly cool.

Bilbo shook his head and wiggled a hook, attached to the threat at the end, into a well-sized crack in the platform. The blue glow glinted across its rounded age. “Can’t find any our size – any that isn’t sharp, or the right dimensions. And, dear Frodo, what use is glass to us underhill?”

Frodo frowned, tinged with disappointment. “Not much.”

“No matter, the world of human beans has much more to borrow.”

With that, the older Hobbit spun on his heel, thread in hand and back facing the room, and jumped over the edge.

“Bilbo!” Frodo gasped. He scrambled over and leant over the hook, eyes downcast and tearful.

For a moment, he saw nothing but the night’s light illuminated upon the surfaces of the room. No Hobbit. No Uncle.

He swallowed and raised his voice slightly. It wobbled. “Uncle Bilbo!”

Upon the floor, such a long way down, there was a shimmer of movement. Frodo rubbed his eyes and leaned further over the edge. The hook was cold in his hands.

“Come down, Frodo!”

There! Beneath him, where the thread spooled upon the floor, Bilbo threw back his hood and shook out his curls. Even with the contrast of his honey-coloured hair to the floor, Frodo could barely differentiate him from his surroundings.

Relief flushed through him, though he shook his head as he took the thread in hand.

“How silly of you, Frodo,” he berated quietly. The thread was rough as he wormed it through his fingers. “Of course Uncle Bilbo wouldn’t jump off a cliff without a plan. So silly.”

Slowly, Frodo stepped off the ledge and began his journey down.

Though Frodo was not inexperienced in his form of exploration – Bilbo had ensured Frodo knew the movements and theory behind it, as it was a key skill for any Hobbit living within the world of human beans – theory, he often found, never quite matched practice. True, the odd hopping down the long stretched of wood was not what he had imagined it to look like. Rather than a grand adventurer, leaping from ledge to ledge with the threat of danger in-between, Frodo imagined he looked quite like a newborn rabbit.

He possessed not the skipping, skittish heart of a rabbit, however. No – he held the heart of a proper Hobbit, a true explorer. He felt it thump under his ribs, echoed within the slight trembling of his fingers and legs. His knees buckled with the force of it – it was so strong.

Slowly, slowly, though quicker than expected, Frodo neared the ground. As the polished floor and awaiting Uncle approached, Frodo glanced up and felt his heart jump. A cliff indeed! – white and smooth.

The ground met his feet suddenly, and his knees buckled.

Bilbo chuckled beneath him and caught him in his arms. “I’m so proud of you, my boy!”

Frodo looked up at him and felt pride flush his face. “I did it!”

Bilbo helped him to his feet and brushed him down. “That you did.”

While Frodo gathered his strength, Bilbo, gathered the thread back into his hands. He tugged with the confidence of an expert, and a wave travelled up the thread. Up and up it went, until it reached the hook and dislodged it. The hook fell, catching the light as it did so. Frodo readied his knees to run, but Bilbo lifted his hand, palm outstretched. With a flash, the hook fell into his awaiting hand.

“Let’s be off then.”

Frodo blinked at him for a moment before nodding. “Of course, Uncle.”

The two of them walked along the plains of the strange floor, Bilbo leading and Frodo struggling to keep up as each and every thing caught his eye. The floor wasn’t wood; it was colder against his feet. In addition, light – both the blue of the night and the yellow of Bilbo’s bulb – was captured within it and reflected in similar amounts. The strangest thing, Frodo thought, was how each square was separated by a sunken strip of rough material, like stone! Dragging his eyes from the floor, he took in massive draws and metallic squares. There were paintings, flowers, cups and cutlery, all many times larger than the ones he and Bilbo possessed back at home. Even more, there were so many things Frodo failed to recognise, whether it be due to their size or simply his unfamiliarity with them, like the _glass_. However, he did recognise the common shape of a door on the opposite side of the room, tucked into the wall beside the dining table, and marvelled at its size.

Bilbo led the two of them – sometimes with a soft murmurer, other times with a pointed tug on the sleeve – towards one of the giant draws. Once they reached it, Bilbo tugged Frodo to a stop and pointed upwards.

“The flour is up there. Sugar too.”

“How will we get up there?” Frodo asked, lips pointed down. Though Bilbo had retrieved their hook and thread, he couldn’t imagine them climbing back up, let alone able to get the hook stuck in a crack from where they stood all the way beneath it.

“Leave that to me,” Bilbo replied. “Open your bag and take out the tape for me, my boy.”

Frodo did as was told and pulled the button free from its slip to retrieved the four, small squares of tape. He watched as Bilbo, with a small murmur of thanks, strip and apply them to his arms and feet. He took a few steps on the spot, knees high, and nodded at its stickiness.

“I’ll drop them down soon, stay here.”

“I will.”

* * *

Frodo felt terribly, terribly alone.

Bilbo had reached the top of the cliff – the _counter_ – only a few minutes ago, but since then had failed to reappear. Frodo knew he was okay – this was _Uncle Bilbo Baggins of Bag End,_ after all _–_ and yet the silence and space around him herded close, like approaching clouds. The silence rumbled.

In a new world of cliffs and trunks and the stretching surfaces of every kind and shape-

Frodo felt _very… very small_.

Maybe- maybe his heart wasn’t that of an adventurer after all. Had Bilbo ever felt this way? So small- no. Not small, Frodo knew he was small and that had never been an issue for him.

Helpless. He felt helpless _because_ of his size.

Anything could crush him – he could become stuck under some flake of paint, or- or could fall somewhere he couldn’t climb out from!

“It’s okay,” Frodo mumbled as he felt his heart in the back of his knees. “Uncle Bilbo is here, he’ll protect me.”

Still, there was silence.

“We’ll be back home soon.”

He took his mind to it; thought of the kitchen and his bed. His manuscript – a collection of whatever stories he could pull from Bilbo – would still be on his bed. Unedited!

“Frodo!”

He looked up, and the hands tangled into his cloak released. “Uncle! You’re okay!”

Peering over the ledge, Bilbo replied. “Of course, my boy! The sugar’s coming down!”

The older Hobbit disappeared for a moment, though returned before Frodo’s anxiety could grow. The white corner of a cube of sugar, securely wrapped in dark thread, poked over the side. Bilbo’s distant shape shifted, and it fell over the rounded edge. For a moment it fell freely, before jumping as the thread was pulled tight and, with considerable strength on behalf of Bilbo, was slowly lowered down the counter’s side.

Frodo shuffled closer and set his bag down, sides open wide. _The cube should fit,_ he thought, fingers fiddling with the fabric’s edges. _Space to spare_.

Nodding, he craned his neck upwards. A speck in the darkness, the cube lowered in the silence.

Suddenly, emerging from the calm, enduring silence, a strange sound made itself known.

Frodo rose from his knees and looked around.

_A thump? Thunder?_

He looked to the glass, and though it were dark, the night was clear. Glancing up again, he found Bilbo still occupied with lowering the sugar cube. The only sounds he made were short huffs that barely reached Frodo’s ears, so he couldn’t have been responsible.

_It can’t be me_ , Frodo thought, turning on his heel. _What is it, what is it…_

Then; a _long_ , high-pitched creak.

Like a door-

Frodo spun, a gasp caught in his throat. The door, the one by the table- it was _opening!_

_Bilbo!_

He couldn’t speak. His throat had shrivelled like a dried sponge while his feet had stuck to the floor.

From his position on the floor – so low, so small – he was forced to watch as the door, as tall as the trunk of a tree, was pulled further into the darkness of the new room, opening wider and wider-

For a moment, there was only Frodo and the looming darkness. The void.

Then there stood a _giant_ , taller than trees and mountains and any living thing Frodo could have ever imagined. Dark hair, long and tussled, obscured its face in shadow. A hand, massive and with long, thick fingers, grasped the doorframe. A thin beam of light leapt across its knuckles.

It could crush him. It could grab Frodo in its inescapable hand and _squeeze_ -

Legs, surely more than half its total height, rose from the floor, with its feet _covered_ and strange fabric. Frodo could never ever outrun him – he doubted he could escape a well-placed stomp. He- he-

The sugar cube dropped beside him, exploding into a shower of grains as the thread fell limp.

A gasp left Frodo’s throat loosened as he jumped back. He tore his eyes away from the giant, the _human bean_ and looked up.

_Go!_ Bilbo mouthed, hands gesturing violently towards the back door, where the porch and their home awaited. His bulb was dim. Off. _Go Frodo!_

One moment, one small beat of a rabbit’s skittish heart-

Frodo grabbed his bag and took off, running faster than he ever had, ever would again. He leapt over the small trenches in the floor, small feet silent as he landed. He couldn’t chance a glance behind him- couldn’t waste a moment.

_What is Uncle going to do!?_

There was a loud, low grumble behind him, like thunder, or the rolling of clouds. So loud- so big!

Frodo fled into the living room; it was dominated by giant lounges, a massive drawer, and a rug that looked more like a wild field. Luckily, Frodo’s path to the back door avoided it.

_Go go go, just a bit further!_

The clattering of something metal-

_Don’t look back, keep going-_

Frodo turned, and through the darkness he saw the fork finally come to rest upon the ground. A flicker of brown disappeared from the countertop behind a large jar. Hiding.

The _human_ perked up at the noise, strong nose peeking from behind its dark hair. Another grumble, low and dangerous, rolled through the air. Its hand slapped against the wall.

Frodo’s foot caught against a raised square of the floor and went sprawling, voice caught high in a squeak. He squeezed his eyes shut as pain shot through his hands, his chest and the rest of his body landing barely a moment after.

_Uncle Bilbo!_

Suddenly, through the darkness of his eyelids, Frodo saw the orange-brown impression of daylight.

With confusion in his eyes, he opened them and craned his neck skywards. However, his eyes lasted only a moment against the bright light, and he had to duck his head into his arm, eyes blinking rapidly as they _stung_.

_What on the green earth- the sun? No, it’s the night!_

Steps, quiet but no where near as silent as those made by him or Bilbo, sounded behind him. Frodo squinted into the bright room and peered behind him.

The human shuffled further into the kitchen, closer to the arms of the U-shaped counters. Its dark head swung back and forth and its hand raised to rub at its eye.

Frodo scrambled to his feet. The sharp bite of panic rumbled in harmony with his aching hands. _Where, where-_

His feet moved without his head’s permission, and he found himself sprinting towards the forest of chair and table legs.

He leapt into the long grasses of the rug, into the shadow cast by the table, and kept low as he crawled his way towards the main support of the table.

“A fork…?”

Frodo curled behind the beam and peeked towards the counters. The human sat crouched, long limbs folded into each other, fabric rippling. The fork, held between his fingers in front of his face, was cast in shadow. Looking up, Frodo beheld the protruding half-sphere from the ceiling, emanating light as though it were the sun- no! Like Bilbo’s bulb!

“Strange,” the human grumbled again, voice thick with sleep. “Must’ve forgotten to put it away.”

As the human remained crouched, half-obscured by the angle of the counter, Bilbo reappeared at the top. While his cloak had rendered himself almost invisible within the natural darkness of the night, the new illumination ensured he stood out like a black thumb. However, with the human occupied, Frodo watched as his Uncle used the tape still stuck to his arms to half-crawl down, careful to keep his toes facing down. But he climbed down swiftly, carelessly, and at some points he appeared not even half-stuck to the counter’s side.

Frodo watched with barely a breath in his lungs, eyes tearful and every muscle in his body screaming to both flee and remain. Bilbo landed ungracefully, knees buckling. He remained like that for only a moment, however, before he sprinted towards the back door, towards Frodo, as quick as the wind.

The human rose to its full, extravagant height, and twisted its torso to set the fork on the counter, back to both Hobbits.

“Clean it tomorrow. Hm.”

Bilbo had almost reached the carpet then, though his eyes were on the back door.

“Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo whispered loudly, though his voice trembled. “Over here!”

Bilbo’s head spun and his eyes widened when they fell upon the hiding Hobbit. Instantly he changed his directory, feet slipping momentarily.

“Frodo! You’re alright!”

Bilbo’s feet disappeared into the rug as he lunged into it, slipping into the shadows. Frodo reached out and wrapped his hands into the fabric of Bilbo’s cloak.

“Oh, my lad.”

Frodo sniffled. A tension was rumbling in the depths of his throat, and from there it made his whole body tremble with its echoes.

“Uncle-” he whispered.

“I’m here, my boy.”

Together they fell against the table, crouched low in the long, thick strands of the rug. In the shadows of the forest there, they were unlikely to be found.

Still, they weren’t out of the fire just yet.

Bilbo rubbed Frodo’s back in slow circles, eyes never leaving the human in the kitchen. Frodo may not have seen a fellow Hobbit through his wet eyes, but the human’s size made that almost impossible. It walked in long, slow strides to the sink – a large metallic dip in the counter – and twisted a knob. Water spurted into the cup waiting below it, and for stretched moments the three of them remained in silence, with nothing but the sound of rushing water to fill it.

With a squeak, the tap was twisted off, and the human shuffled back to the door. A moody huff ripped through its long hair. He flicked a small lever attached to the wall and the blanket of night returned. Far above them, the half-sphere stuck to the ceiling glowed dimly, before it too was smothered by the night.

The human disappeared into the doorway, and the door clicked shut behind him.

Once again, it was only Bilbo and Frodo. Small, and helpless, in the world of the human beans.

“Quickly, my lad. The back door.”

Frodo nodded weakly, and let himself be led across the floor. Nothing stopped them, nothing caused them to pause.

There was only silence, the world, and them.

Together, they escaped through a break in the screen door, leapt down the wooden porch stairs, and retreated into the thick bramble bush that protected their home.

* * *

**Bilbo**

_I have borrowed from this house for my entire life_ , Bilbo thought solemnly, _and I have never seen than human before_.

Bag End – which used to be the actual end of a bag in his parent’s days, though had proved to be unsecure when the time came – was quiet. Frodo lay in his bed, sleeping off both his weariness and his shock. He’d looked peaceful when Bilbo had last checked on him; though he knew well the sleep following a troubling borrowing.

The dim embers of the hearth crackled. Bilbo scowled.

He had made sure of it – had checked the dishes and the shoes on the front step the day before; One pair of boots, female, and two smaller pairs for children, speckled with mud. A mother, and two boys. Just like any other night, any other week for the past year!

There had been four once – an additional man; a husband and father likely. Though, evidence of his existence had slowly disappeared. Now, not even his boots could be found on the porch, nor was there ever more than three sets of cutlery on the table. After a year, Bilbo had accepted his absence, and thought nothing more of it, so sure in his certainty.

And yet, there was another human bean in the house. Another man.

Had Bilbo missed his arrival? It’s possible, in all the preparing he had done for Frodo’s borrowing. But he had _checked_.

_Nevertheless, tonight was a disaster. No sugar, no flour, Frodo likely traumatised beyond belief, and on top of that almost being caught. Almost. It was close – but not close enough. Surely, the human would forget the strange occurrence, as they often did. A dream of the night._

Bilbo nodded to himself and ran his finger over his mug. The crumbs of tealeaves sat at the bottom, soggy.

Any other Hobbit would have left – any chance, no matter how small, was a chance. A struggle against the great world outside, no matter how the journey ended, was better than being captured.

The unknown of the great world outside was better than the unknown of the human beans.

He glanced to the mantel. There, four rounded portraits stood. Four Hobbit faces smiled down at him.

Lost to that unknown world.

Bilbo swallowed, throat thin.

_I cannot chance Frodo against the horrors of the world outside_ , he thought.

_I can’t lose him too_.

Bilbo huffed. The uneven solidness of uncertain certainty filled his chest. However, as he knew, it would solidify like bread, expand until there was no room for doubt.

_We’re staying_.

Bilbo rose from his chair, snuffed out the flickering candle upon the table, and went to bed, heart heavy.

* * *

Frodo did not rise for breakfast. Despite this oddness, Bilbo prevented himself from waking him. _The boy’s tired from his borrowing_ , he reasoned to himself as he stirred the porridge. He knew of many times he himself had woken later than his usual routine, and Frodo had left him to rest in peace. He could only do the same – he was a proper Baggins, after all.

The next hour of the morning moved slowly, and with no sign of Frodo. With a huffed edged with concern, Bilbo snuffed the fire and set the porridge away with a note; _gone out, do eat_.

Frodo may have had the whole day to sleep, but Bilbo could not afford the rest. There were new people in the house, new dangers. He needed to see what adjusting he had to do to his and Frodo’s life, within what they had already so carefully carved.

And to do that, Bilbo needed to understand the house.

He dressed light, taking his cloak, Sting, and his grapplehook. Anything else would only weigh him down, and he could not afford any lack of nimbleness or stealth. This was not a borrowing mission. This was more important.

Frodo had still not arisen when he left, and so Bilbo hopped the note by the porridge would be enough.

The trip between the walls was quick. The usual. Just him, silence, and the spiders if they dared reared their heads. Sometimes the newer ones would challenge him, whether it be due to tween inexperience or having not been told the tales of _the fly who stings the spider_ by more experienced residents. Still, a chance was a chance, and thus Bilbo took the safer route. Navigating through the between-walls, across rungs and bridges and various mechanisms, he found his way to the Viewing Point – a crack under the stairs.

There, Bilbo sat, puffed.

_I’m not a tween anymore,_ he thought, noting the ache in his knee. He rubbed at it and frowned. _Few more good years yet, ‘til it gets tough._

He slumped against the wooden planks and tilted his head until he could peer out onto the kitchen-dining area.

Morning, as shared among most creatures, was a time of relaxation and feast. Three humans sat at the table. The mother, and two boys; just as usual. And yet, a fourth setting was prepared at the table. Eggs, bacon, milk – all in massive amounts.

_Late riser, like Frodo then_.

The mother, with her dark hair tucked back behind her ears, spoke to her child – the blond, older boy – in a soft tone. The other boy, younger with dark hair, sat by them. She looked worse than Bilbo had ever seen her. Dark circles mooned under her eyes, and strands of hair escaped her tie, hung limply over her shoulder. Her skin, already pale, appeared even more so; sickly.

More revealing than any image, however; was her depleted energy. She moved as if through water, eroded and weighed. Sunken.

Sorrowful.

For a moment, in the split second after a blink, Bilbo saw his mother.

Alone, and worn. Stretched, as if butter scraped over too much bread.

And then, it was gone. Swept away.

Only to replace it with the new human of the house.

He entered from where he had the night before. His dark hair, similar to the mother’s, was pulled back, and instead of his pyjamas he wore a worn jacket and suitable pants. His eyes were bright – at least in comparison to the mother. With a squint, Bilbo noticed they shared a multitude of features.

_The father?_ he questioned. _He doesn’t look that old. A brother?_

The man sat at the table, hand reaching out to give a quick ruffle to the blond son’s hair, and began shovelling food into his mouth. Together, quietly, they spoke. The tone was light, though strained. Tested. Every now and again, the man would brush one of the two boys’ cheeks.

Reassurance.

An attempt at a transferal of strength. Of endurance.

Bilbo turned away, eyes downcast.

_A tragedy has happened here_ , he thought gravely. He could feel the weight of it in his chest, a stone coming to settle into a place it had dominated twice before.

It pressed against his ribs – an echo; a brief duplication.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and from the swirling, flashing shapes he found, he saw himself.

* * *

“Bilbo!” Frodo gasped as the older Hobbit appeared in the doorway. “I was so worried- I had thought-”

Bilbo closed the door and sent him a weak smile. “I’m fine, my lad. I simply went to survey the house’s new inhabitant.”

A remnant of fear clouded Frodo’s clear, blue eyes. “And?”

“He’s no danger,” Bilbo said without pause. “A visitor, I believe.”

“Is he suspicious?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

Frodo slumped, relief weakening his body. He mumbled into his bowl, still filled with lukewarm porridge.

“You haven’t eaten,” Bilbo noted.

“Couldn’t eat with you gone, Uncle Bilbo.” The boy swallowed and picked up his spoon. “But I can now.”

He gave Bilbo a smile, soft and honest, framed by fresh curls.

Bilbo held in a pleased sigh.

_At least he can still smile._

* * *

Night approached, with a small nap in-between. Despite the uncertainty of the house – and thus the unknown dangerous it may be hiding – they needed flour. Sugar would be nice, but Bilbo would be happy with forgoing it once more if its retrieval presented further risk. Flour, however, was desperately needed.

Bilbo was sliding Sting into his pants when Frodo spoke up.

“Would you like me to accompany you, Uncle?”

He looked to the boy and attempted to prevent a worried frown from marking his face. “If you would like to, my lad. I won’t be opposed to you staying, though.”

Frodo, curled in his armchair, looked away, face pointed towards the kitchen. However, Bilbo doubted it was their kitchen Frodo saw.

He took a long moment to answer. “I’ll come with you. Give me a few minutes to get ready?”

_Mentally or physically?_ “Of course.”

The journey back to the kitchen was shorter than the one the previous night. Frodo walked quicker, took larger leaps across the rungs. His head swivelled back and forth, like a mouse in a cat’s den.

Bilbo supposed that’s what he felt like – small prey. Helpless.

“Almost there,” he said to him, reassurance thickening his tone.

Frodo nodded, eyes stuck on the darkness below them. There, the spiders scuttled.

The blue glow of the night met them, as welcoming as it ever was. In the small shelf-space, Bilbo stocked his items slowly, with faux stretches of thought, and large stretches in between. In this time, Frodo appeared to calm down – though his hands still trembled where they grasped his bag, his eyes no longer scanned back and forth.

“I’m proud of you,” Bilbo said, throwing his grapplehook over his shoulder.

Frodo glanced to him. A weak smile pushed through the tension of his face. “Thank you, Bilbo.”

* * *

The flour collection proceeded with few interruptions.

Frodo remained by Bilbo’s side the entire time, and while it was not the most optimal use of a second partner, Bilbo could find no part within himself that disliked having the boy close. With careful consideration and planning, noting all points of escape or hiding beforehand, the pair traversed the kitchen, climbing up and down the counters until they came upon the surface holding both sugar and flour once more.

“The bag, my lad.”

Frodo produced the empty cloth bag and handed it over, head spinning on his neck. The bag shook as it was placed in his hands.

Bilbo’s mouth opened but there came no words of reassurance. Not that would have effect Frodo in any significant way, anyway. Instead, the Hobbit climbed onto the container and slid open the top.

Thankfully, the flour level was high. _Must’ve been freshly topped up_. Once before, in Bilbo’s younger, more inexperienced years, he had climbed into the flour container while the level had been far too low. While he could have blamed his stupidity on desperation, it had truly been adventurous foolishness. He had thankfully kept his grapplehook with him, and had remembered to use it after minutes of panic following his inability to simply climb out. Still, if he had not…

Bilbo would ensure Frodo would never make a similar mistake.

Bilbo shovelled the fine grain into the bag with long, deep sweeps of his arms. Once, he would have accepted half a bag’s worth, less perhaps, but with the uncertainty facing both him and his nephew he filled it to the top before tying it closed. Then, he climbed out with the bag trailing behind him.

No problems. No hitches.

Just as it should be.

“Should we try for the sugar?”

Bilbo glanced at the glass jar. The small cubes nagged at him, ever tempting. His tea would be all the sweeter for it – it had been awfully bitter as of late.

A great breath left his chest. He nodded.

Frodo, holding to bag close to his side, followed him as they approached the glass jar.

However, Bilbo noted something dark in the glass reflection, more vibrant than their cloaks. It was warped by the glass’s rounded shape, though he could distinguish its thing, long shape…

Bilbo spun, dread expanding within his chest.

There – the dark blue thread he had used to lower the sugar cube the night before-

It lay curled behind the sugar jar, almost entirely unaltered. The small, tiny knots of Bilbo’s own hand were spread across the counter as much as they were allowed.

Preserved.

Noted.

His chest ached.

_Evidence_.

_Like a footprint in the sun._

The heavy weight of a dreary acceptance filled Bilbo’s bones, spreading from his ribs down to his fingers and toes. He felt the world crowd him, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Quiet.

Silence.

“Let’s go back, Frodo,” he murmured.

Frodo, to his credit, did not argue. Bilbo took his empty hand, and guided him back to the shelf-space; each step heavier than the last.

Would this be his last trip through the kitchen? His last step upon the cold tile?

Frodo slipped through the crack first, wiggling their bag of flour with some effort. Alone, Bilbo looked out upon the kitchen.

It had become a home of sorts. A place of comfort. Of regularity. Of safety.

No more.

But he could give them both one more night, one night swaddled in a fake impression of security.

Then, they’d move on.

Bilbo could only hope he could protect Frodo out in the wide world.

If he was strong enough. Fast enough. Just…. Enough.

Unlike last time.


	2. Chapter Two

**Thorin**

“Mama says there are little people in the walls.”

Thorin blinked as he was torn from the cold, snow-covered forest of the Lantern Waste, the white swimming behind his lids. Once it dissipated, mystified, he peered down at his nephew from the height of his book pages.

Fili, blond hair tussled and cheeks red from effort, grinned up at him. One of his front teeth was missing, replaced with an inky, red darkness.

_That hadn’t been there before- or, had it-_

“Little people?” he repeated.

Fili nodded and, with some difficulty, managed to climb into Thorin’s lap. He shifted, saying, “Ah huh! She says they live in the walls and like the borrow things!”

Thorin frowned and, after thumbing the corner of his page into a short fold, he set _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ on the arm of the lounge. With hands free, he held the boy close to his chest and tussled his golden hair. Fili tilted his head and watched him, eyes wide with both wonder and criticism.

It was Thorin’s memory – an easy, well-worn fallback – which saved him.

He hummed low in agreement. “They do; they’re called ‘Borrowers’ for just that.”

Fili gasped, and his small fingers wrapped themselves in Thorin’s shirt. “I’ve never seen them.”

“They sneak in the night, cloaked in webs of darkness, while we all sleep,” he replied.

_Sneaky things,_ his had father had said to him once. It had been raining, and he had watched the droplets race down the side of the window, barely listening. _Flitter between pot and jar, borrowing and taking all sorts of things._

“And steal out sugar!”

Thorin wiggled his fingers across Fili’s ribs, and the boy jumped to the floor, squealing.

He landed on all floors, like the little lion Dis so often characterized him to be. As such, the boy scrambled away, still squealing, and barely rising to his feet to jog up the stairs, fleeing to his bedroom.

Once his joyful squealing and been deafened by the ceiling and walls above, Thorin leaned back and let the soft, worn cushions envelop him. His eyes scanned the ceiling, all its lines and chips, and tried to imagine where Fili would be. With Kili? Building their own little den, walled with blankets and pillows?

Attempting to hide from the world? Or planning a new, investigatory plan of attack?

A long sigh left his lungs. And he felt like the beach with a breeze – with no waves to push back the sand.

_Oh Dis… has it reached… is it that bad? So soon?_

He scoffed, hand reaching out to trace the cover of his book with a half-absent mind.

Of course it was bad, what was he – blind? Ignorant? Dumb? Were the long naps, dead eyes, and complete lack of energy in the house nothing?

No, of course it was bad – it was horrible. Worse, even.

In the dark, deep part of his mind, like an unused storage space under the stairs, something dwelt, growing like moss. It reached out, pulsating, with fingers made from possibilities, alternatives – all with nails sharper than the last. After all; what if Thorin had not been available?

Children were joyous, and with certainty Thorin knew his sister found life within her two boys. But children could not talk like an adult could, could not comprehend the darkness and sorrow that came after a death in the same way as an adult would. He, as a child, couldn’t – either time.

He knew the boys missed their father, almost as much as Dis herself – he could see it in their blank stares, their wandering, their silent questions. Although Vili’s absence from the home was not new… it was different, now. And though they knew it, they failed to understand the weight that had settled over the house. It’s meaning. That their father would not be returning – that he wouldn’t send a card; that he wouldn’t call again.

Dis needed someone who understood it. Had breathed in that darkened air, had waded through the tears and sorrows and the reopened wounds, who had the scars and healing to show for it.

“You look moody.”

_Speaking of;_

“Still better than you,” he mumbled in return.

Dis looked unimpressed, though a slight tint of humour dazzled behind her eyes. The shadow of a fish during a gloomy day – a suggestion. Thorin was glad to see it.

“That’s not hard to do these days,” she said as she sat beside him, similarly sinking into the pillows like an anchor into a foamy sea. “Even a tired racoon would come before me in a beauty contest.”

“But it’s not about beauty, Dis.” There was an ache in him, lined with worry of a deepening hole. “It’s-”

“It’s about how far you are in the healing process,” his sister interrupted like an obedient parrot. Her eyes shined with anger- no. Loathing? Aggravation? “I know that- I was making a joke.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

The air lay between them like a set of fallen dominoes that no one wanted to pick up; either to return them to their standing positions or to tuck them away into a forgotten drawer.

No one had ever put them away. Now, only dust found comfort in them.

“Funny joke,” he said, finally.

Dis said nothing for a moment, eyes glued to the stairs where her son had disappeared. Thorin, alternatively, kept his eyes on his socked feet.

“It was quick.”

Thorin winced.

“Do you think talking about it now-”

“I want to talk about it,” Dis snapped, shoulders stiff and hunched by her ears.

“Okay, okay,” he murmured. His hands rose briefly, but fell back into his lap.

He waited.

Venting was a good thing, he knew. Good to talk – to pull the cork and spill whatever concoction of guilt and displeasure one had made into depths of the sea. His mother had done so, he had done so, Dis had and would again…

So he waited.

But nothing came.

He risked a glance, just a peek, towards his sister.

Her face was slack. Empty. Eyes unfocused and mouth taunt in a thin line.

“Fili likes the story of the little people,” she mumbled.

Thorin breathed in through his nose and turned away. His own bottled concoction of guilt and worry at the change in subject bubbled under his ribs. “So did we.”

“We used to search for hours. Kept us busy when mother didn’t want to watch us.”

“And now the boys…”

Dis sighed, slowly and unsteady. Thorin, noted by a pang in his heart, recognised it all too well.

“I’ve told them not to search by the river,” she said. A hand trailed up her body, heavy in the elbow, and she squeezed her own arm. “That the little people can’t swim, so there’d be no point”

_I wish mother had told us that._

“Good… have the boys had lessons?”

Dis barely nodded. “The best. Top of their classes – I’ve made sure of it.”

She turned to him then, and within her eyes, clear as the river they had lost so much to, Thorin saw the steely endurance that shined most brightly between the three of them. Thorin possessed the iron of determination, Dis the steel of endurance, and Frerin had held within himself, though easily shared, the golden shine of joy.

As it had turned out, gold sunk faster than iron or steel.

“Put up a fence, too. Just in case.”

Thorin swallowed a sigh and flittered his eyes away.

“I- I have work to do, Dis,” he said quickly.

His sister nodded, though her eyes spoke of something more. Yet, despite its burning, bars stood before the wild flame. She needed time to bring it under control. “I’ll call you out for lunch, you recluse.”

Thorin stood, waving his hand. “As if you have any right calling _me_ a recluse.”

Dis huffed, though remained on the couch as he returned to his room.

Besides, it was easier to throw dominoes than carefully set them straight, no matter how long they had remained untouched.

* * *

Next, ever the follower, the dark shadow to the lion, came Kili.

Younger and less curious, though just as determined in whatever found his older companion’s eye, the boy walked through Thorin’s open door – he didn’t want to appear closed off to either boys or their mother – and announced his presence with a question.

“Have you seen the people in the walls?”

Thorin, eyes set upon the details of a banking account, jumped slightly. It seemed he wasn’t used to a full house just yet. He blinked down at the boy and swivelled his chair to face him.

“I- no. I can’t say I’ve seen them.”

Kili, round eyes squinting, nodded slowly and shuffled closer. Just had he had done with Fili, Thorin pulled the boy into his lap and combed his fingers through his mess of hair. Their mother – Thorin’s, that is – had done it to his siblings too many times to count.

“Mama says she has-” _That she has._ “and that she found proof!”

Thorin raised a brow and leaned back upon the creaking chair, likely older than Kili himself. Perhaps even Fili. “Proof?” he repeated, lightly toned.

Kili nodded, hair snagging momentarily. “Rope! Her missing blue thread!”

Thorin morphed his face into one of seriousness and brought a hand to his chin, scholarly-like. “I see. When they had tried to borrow the su-”

“Sugar!”

Thorin nodded. “You already knew, smart boy.”

Kili grinned. “Ah huh! Mama told me, cause one of the sugar cubes had fallen onto the floor! The ants were eating it.”

Dis had told him, hushed in the quiet of the morning.

_I found my missing thread,_ she had mumbled. _Was knotted as if it had carried something_. _Found a sugar cube on the floor too._

_That so,_ he had replied, mentally reeling in the line she’d been throwing.

Of course, there were more obvious ways to go about it – Thorin was known, besides his iron determination, to have the thickest head of the three of them – but the boys had been in the room. Despite being distracted by a carved, handmade wooden toy Thorin had brought with him on the suggestion of a friend, he understood why Dis wouldn’t want to risk an unveiled discussion. Never the less, the shifting of a golden head told Thorin the eldest boy had been listening.

“Must’ve dropped it,” he said, spinning the chair so Kili could rest his small feet upon the edge of his desk. “Spooked by some shadow – they are very small.”

“Smaller than me?”

Thorin smiled at his nephew. “Even smaller.”

Kili gasped, eyes sparkling. “Even smaller!” he repeated.

“Enough to live within the walls of the house, sleep under the steps, and slip into our sugar jar.”

The boy’s eyes glazed over in wonder. “Do you think me and fee could find them?”

Thorin tilted his head and hummed in thought. “They are _very small_ … though I’ve heard some scuttling in the living room-”

And the boy was off, leaping from his lap and sprinting out his door, right into the living room as the shine of childish exploration awaited.

Thorin smiled, though small. His two nephews would be busy for at least a few hours. Enough time for himself to finish his work for the day and for Dis to regain the strength she needed before the tearing, exposing quiet of the night.

And, they’d stay inside. Safe.

* * *

The thought came to him, as many often did to fill in the sudden, empty space within his ever-rolling mind, as he closed his laptop.

_The fork._

The sudden darkness of the room, previously illuminated by the blue light of the screen, smothered his eyes, allowing him to view the kitchen as it was the previous night.

There was no reason for the fork to have slipped off the counter. Nothing else ever had – nothing as flat and as unmoveable as a _fork_ – certainly look in his childhood years within the house, at least.

He had been tired, drained even, perhaps a little light on coherent thought – but he knew that fork had fallen, and he had picked it up.

Furthermore, he knew that forks didn’t fall on their own.

And the thread…

Abandoning his desk, scratched just as he remembered it when it had been under his father’s care, he swooped into the kitchen. There, Dis stood by the counter, knife in hand scrapping butter across slices of bread in a numb, automatic motion.

_Sandwiches for dinner?_ he thought briefly, though it was swiftly obscured like rainclouds over a distant star.

“Dis,” he spoke as he approached.

She twisted her torso to glance at him, long fingers splaying thin slices of ham across the buttered slices all the while. “Hm?”

He spared a look around. No pair of boys in sight – upstairs then.

“The thread,” he began, his voice low. “the blue knotted thread- did…?”

Dis frowned, brows twitching together. “I found it on the floor this morning, with the sugar. You left it there, for the boys.”

“I thought you did.”

The pair stared at each other, blinking.

“The boys aren’t here-”

“You don’t have to lie to me-”

Both closed their mouths with a _click_.

There was a long moment of silence.

“I’m sure I forgot,” Dis mumbled, turning back to the sandwiches. She nodded as she set them upon a patterned plate. “Surely, I must’ve put it there while I was tired. Hm, of course.”

Thorin watched the back of her head, dark hair pulled into a tangle. “Surely,” he echoed.

“Surely. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Of course.”

Then, with her eyes slightly glazed with thought, his sister disappeared upstairs, plate in hand.

* * *

_Surely not_ , Thorin thought distantly, eyes glued to the flaking sections of the ceiling.

The evening had passed slowly, and as the moon dawned so did Thorin’s slow realisation.

_Surely not_ , he repeated.

Outside, the sounds of crickets and distant gargling water slipped through his open window. Inside the walls of the house, however, remained the quiet air. Dis had fled to bed only a bit after dusk, and though the boys lasted significantly longer, Thorin managed to get them to bed at a semi-reasonable time.

Thorin himself could say no such thing.

_Surely not_.

The dull teeth of suspicion had gnawed at him through the reign of the sun, slow and light like the lapping of a beach. With the coming of the moon, however, the teeth had sharpened, and with increasing intensity Thorin had noticed the blood running down his ankle.

He sat up, bones creaking. Thin, stray strands of hair escaped to hang around his face, like long vines within a jungle ready to entrap a passer-by.

_The fork_.

Thorin stood, and within moments had approached his closed bedroom door, slippers secure on his feet. His fingertips touched the carved surface, smoothed by white paint.

He listened.

But there was nothing. Nothing he could hear.

With a turn of his wrist, he felt the latch spin, and the door came free from its frame. Gently, slowly, muting the creak of its hinges, he pulled open the door.

The kitchen – the same kitchen from his childhood, excluding a few improvements and modernisations – was bathed in blue; cold and unwelcoming. There stood the counters, there sat the jars and containers. There lay the drawers, slumbering within their own homely walls. There hung the photographs, the small metallic sheet above the oven that read, in pretty blue calligraphy _tea time is me time_.

Nothing out of place. Nothing of the abnormal variety.

Nothing strange.

Thorin stepped into the room, eyes adjusting to the slight change in light.

And only the blankness, the normalness of _nothing_ met him.

He turned, hair falling to curtain his face. _Of course_.

He shook his head, chuckling. _How silly. Must need more sleep._

His hand reached for the door, and his fingers wrapped around the cornered edge.

“Get back you!” a small voice rung out.

Thorin perked up, lips tugged down into a frown. He twisted and set his eyes upon the counter.

“Have your betters not taught you the way of this house!”

_Were the boys awake?_

He stepped away from the door, turning as he did so, and approached the inside of the U-shaped kitchen.

The jar- the plates – the knife holder-

_There!_

* * *

**Bilbo**

_It’s always the damn spiders!_

Bilbo ducked behind the block of wood, the textured handles of the daggers protruding from its top. The spider – new to the house, and surprisingly large – smacked into the wood, long legs spreading.

Bilbo swallowed hard. He forced his muscles to raise Sting, despite their screaming. The vicious fight up the rungs in the between-walls spaces had stolen his energy, had knocked the wind from his lungs and eaten up the strength in his body.

If he were younger, within his prime adventuring years, he could have taken the legged beast with little trouble. What was a spider to a dragon, after all.

But his age, his efforts and scars and hits over his years and dulled him like a knife.

What was a dull, metal stick, to a spider.

The creature twisted around the wooden corner, fangs bared and eyes glinting. Bilbo ducked under its legs and flung his arm up. The point of Sting cut into its pointed fur, and the spider spasmed away, garbling in its hideous language.

Taking the time spared, Bilbo rolled and stumbled onto his wobbling legs.

There was little strength within him, now.

He leapt across the sink, grasping and swinging off the metallic tap to reach the other side. He wasted no time upon landing and weaved between the bottles and jars upon that side of the kitchen, feet pounding upon the surface of the counter.

The gush of air was all he needed.

He flung himself to the floor as the spider leapt over his head, barely brushing past his sweat-damp curls. Its legs bent as it landed, and beyond the great curve of its back, its smaller head twitched.

Bilbo lifting Sting. “Know what’s good for you, and return to your darkened dens! You beast!”

Now turned to him, the spider leaned towards him, leering. Preparing.

A cut on his leg, gained from a jutting splinter above one particular rung, ached. One section of his pants was weighed with a darkened, moist weight.

“Get back! This is my final warning!”

But the spider remained deaf, blinded by the glint of hunger and hate.

Its great many legs shifted, moving too fast and all at once for Bilbo to take note of, not as he might have once.

Though the point of Sting remained high, and its trusted, sharpened edge flashed in the light on the stars, Bilbo felt darkness fill his bones.

Nonetheless, no matter how strongly he felt his body failing him, the flash of adrenaline having fled his body long before he’d reached the kitchen, he would not die a coward.

The spider’s fangs shone, and within the void of its eyes Bilbo saw himself; bloodied, drained.

Prey upon a platter. With a toothpick to match.

A flash of grey-

A great, furred shape of grey slammed into the edge of the sink, flipping and spinning within the air all to fast for Bilbo to catch. It flicked against the base of the tap and finally came to rest upon the counter with a thick slap, finishing the series of bangs and whistling it had mused.

The spider – it had barely escaped the projectile. It had ducked beneath the shape, legs splayed wide, eyes flashing with the familiar flash of fear. As the furred oval came to rest, the spider further leapt back.

And there they stood, Hobbit and spider, separated by a strange, foreign shape.

“Go!” shouted a booming voice. “Shoo!”

The spider flinched back, half upon the wall, as another grey shape flashed by. This one smacked against the wall, flipping only once until it wobbled to a stop.

Bilbo blinked. Feeling returning to his limbs. He watched as the spider sped up the wall towards a small crack by the cupboards, close but yet so far – still time for it to change its small mind and eat Bilbo up, to web him and take him in between the walls.

A great shadow enveloped him, and the sheer size of what came before the Hobbit encouraged an encore of weakness within his knees. He fell backwards, landing with a wince and a slap, as unending swarths of fabric and skin approached him with speed. An elongated arm, covered in a layer of dark hair, reached passed him – like, _like a speck of sand_ – and a hand wrapped around one of the furred objects.

It lifted, rose higher and higher, arm angling back until-

_Slap!_

“Shoo!”

The spider, having just escaped the attack with nothing but a flattened leg, scrambled and wiggled furiously until it disappeared into the crack – into the darkness within.

_Slap slap!_

“And don’t come out!”

Bilbo looked up, craned his neck as far back as it could go.

There, closer than ever, and all its huge, ending glory, stood the new human bean, face pulled into a deepening scowl, circled within dark hair. The grey, furred thing remained within his hand, crinkled from where the fingers dug into its fabric and shook.

Slowly, his eyes, reflecting the blue glow of the night within their lighter depths, pulled away from the crack. It scanned across the counter, passed the sink, the battleground until they landed upon Bilbo, wide and rimmed.

They stared at one another. The moon and the sun – ever so distant, the dominant of different realms, forced to come together only on rare occasion.

To a doomed viewing.

But everything – _everything_ – had left Bilbo’s body. Fear, strength, speed. There was only himself, and the human bean before him.

Thus, with nothing burning within himself to light a fire that may have lent him the strength to fight back, he watched as a great hand approached him, fingers curved low. With such a gentle touch – Bilbo would have been amazed at such a touch if he could have fuelled such an exhausting emotion – the hand scooped under him and lifted him from the ground.

Slowly, with his head pillowed upon calloused fingertips, Bilbo was lifted high, higher into the air; towards the man’s face.

Wind swept at him, tussled his curls and dried his lips.

He looked upon the visage of his saviour, his end –

And saw only wonder.

Then, Bilbo fainted.

* * *

Bilbo came to in a room he was not familiar with.

Though the house had been his domain for years, there remained few rooms within its walls that were rarely opened. And, even if he could have found a path into them, there were few resources to be found – unless he was in desperate need of dust.

It seemed Bilbo had found himself within one of these rooms. Or, at least he believed himself to be.

In truth, he awoke to a clothed canopy. And many aches.

Sitting up with a small groan, he noted the walls around him; polished, like the tiles in the kitchen. A cup? No- a bowl. However, instead of a hard surface beneath him, tissues and fabrics had been stuffed into the bottom to soften it.

Bilbo’s back much appreciated it.

To the side, right beside him, his bag and grapplehook lay, half sunk. Carefully put away. Indeed, even Bilbo’s cloak had been removed him his body and set by his bag, flattened and unwrinkled – to an extent. The rest of him had been kindly untouched.

Above him sat the cloth, much sheerer than what Bilbo would have found useful. Nonetheless, he had neither suffocated or been crushed by such a cloth, and thus like many other aspects of this strange situation, gratitude bubbled under his ribs – careful, and guarded.

Encircling the bubbling, however, increasing as awareness returned to him, was a deep-seated state of worry. He was not home – therefore he was in danger.

Pulling on his cloak and swinging his bag over his shoulder stung – each roll of his shoulders twitched and pulled on something further down, while the weight of his bag almost crippled his knees. Still, the encircling grew closer, tighter.

Grabbing the edge of the bowl was easy – pulling himself up and over was a challenge. But he was a _Took_ – half of one at least. What was a bowl to a Took?

The fabric, thank the earth itself, flipped back obediently with a flick of his hand. Nothing – or no one, rather – had tied it down.

Speaking of no ones-

Bilbo jerked as last night returned to him from the void beyond, and he fell from the bowl’s admittedly small height onto the rough, firmness of wood. Spiders- the man-

_Oh, father would be so upset,_ he thought through the ache in his side. _Worried sick!_

As he had thought, Bilbo was in a room he, with a moment of thought, believed he had never entered. It was a bedroom – from the green curtains pulled closed and the large bed to the _man in the bed_ -

There the human lay, buried within a whirlpool of blankets. They curved over his ankle – where a long foot poked out – and tickled his chin. A head, covered his long, dark hair, sat upon a pillow, facing him. Eyes closed.

Asleep – hopefully.

Bilbo from his position – the bedside table, he discovered – viewed him in silence. He had long since burnt through the wonder and amazement that had come over him when he had first viewed the larger people – one rekindled within Frodo. And yet, the long-dead embers of this fire sparked, and though there came no burning, all-encompassing fire, there was a heat that filled his body.

This man had not killed him – yet. Had not attacked him – yet. He had- he had _protected him._ Had scooped him up in gentle hand and placed him within a soft bowl – a bed! – when he could have done so many other, worse things.

With slow movements, Bilbo wobbled to the edge of the surface and climbed down onto the bed. The mattress was soft, dipping slightly with each step. The gentle strands of the blankets brushed over his bare feet as he approached the mound, the great hill, that was his saviour.

So small, he set his eyes upon his face. Peaceful, and slumbering. As if he had not just saved Bilbo’s life – and Frodo’s as well.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “I… thank you.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the peaceful _in_ and _out_ of the breathing of sleep. However, Bilbo watched as the human’s long nose twitched, and sniffled. Following, his chest expanded greatly, before being set loose in a long, _wakeful_ sigh. Bilbo tilted his face away from the oncoming air, and felt it press against his cheek and weave into his curls. It was almost pleasant.

"I'll...” _See you around?_

No, of course not. Bilbo would rather never see this man again. But _hope we never see each other again_ just set his Baggins manners _rolling_. What were manners to a Baggins? Everything.

He shook his head, and instead of wobbly, unfiltered words, opted for a pat on the arm, exposed to the air in all its muscled, furred glory.

He glanced up once more, and took in the image of the man’s face, too loose in the jaw but too tight in the brows to be that of a true slumber.

Though they were likely never meet again, there was nothing wrong with a memory.

Bilbo then, without looking back, made his way down from the bed with a few gasps and groans, and disappeared out the slight opening in the door – a gap suspiciously Bilbo sized.

* * *

“Uncle!”

As Bilbo entered through Bag End’s front door he was barely given a moment before a smaller bundle of fabric and tears barged into him.

“Uncle!” Frodo cried, face red and arms wrapping around him. His own dark cloak folded between them. “I thought you weren’t coming back! Oh Uncle Bilbo!”

The boy buried his face into the older Hobbit’s chest and shook. Deep breathes came forth in shaky heaves.

“My dear,” Bilbo said, hiding a wince. His ribs ached, and skin around his sides stung. “I’m home. Right here.”

“What happened?” Frodo asked from the cloth of Bilbo’s shirt. Moisture settled there.

“It’s quite a story, Frodo.” Bilbo gently took hold of Frodo’s shoulders and took note of the bag slung across his shoulder. While the boy was clearly shocked, and a good cry would surely do him good, Bilbo thought he could faint if he remained on his feet. “Come sit by the hearth.”

With gentle, sore hands Bilbo guided his nephew to the warmth of the hearth and sat him down in his own, favourite armchair. Frodo sunk into its cushions and tucked his feet under himself.

“I was so worried,” he mumbled. “I- I was going to come after you!”

Indeed, glancing around the room Bilbo saw signs of preparation. A cracker had been torn into pieces – rations. Frodo’s bag lay in his lap, stuffed to the brim with who knew what. Propped against the fireplace a splinter of wood had been shaped even sharper, and fabric had been wrapped around its end.

_Oh my boy_.

“I’m am here now, my boy,” Bilbo said as he sat by the warm embers. While certainly not suited perfectly to his like, he shuffled into some semblance of comfort in the other, paired chair.

“Well?”

Bilbo brought his knee across the other with some difficulty and set his hands in his lap. He breathed in. “Well, Frodo, I’ve decided we must leave. Move on, from Bag End.”

Frodo’s face turned pale, and his eyes widened, framed by dark lashes. His curls, flatter than normal, bounced as he straightened. “Leave?” he repeated. “But- it’s dangerous! The beasts, the dragons, the spiders- the _river_!”

Bilbo flicked his eyes away, catching on the glint of the kettle. “It is, but… last night. I was preparing – we needed cloth for bags. I was caught by a spider – a brave one. I… it caught me off guard.”

Frodo’s blue eyes scanned his body, wobbling in their pools. Within them, the realisation of a nightmare confirmed true sparked.

Bilbo continued, pulling his eyes back. “I was battling it in the kitchen when the new human saved me.”

There was a silent pause. Frodo’s eyes met his, confusion drawing his brows together. “I don’t…”

“He saved me. Scared the spider away and took him into his bedroom. But, he didn’t encage me.”

He thought back to his brief rest; the cloth set over the bowl, and the tissues and fabric pushed into its depths for _his_ comfort.

“I left while he slept.” _Fake slept_. “But he knows of us, dear Frodo.”

Panic swept over the boy’s face, though it came not in the violence of a wave. Instead, it was a slow soaking.

“He- oh Bilbo!”

Frodo lurched forward and fell into Bilbo’s lap. There, curled, he sniffled into his knees.

Bilbo gently combed through his dark hair with his fingers. “My boy,” he whispered. “I am safe.”

Frodo shook his head. “We’ll leave tomorrow- tonight!”

“We still don’t have the materials we need-”

“We’ll rip up shirts! Take our blankets! We’ll leave as soon as we can!” Frodo turned his face, and Bilbo saw the wet rimming of his eyes. “Before you’re taken from me too.”

The weight of grief, like water within the earth, filled Bilbo’s bones. Carefully, he curled over Frodo and pressed a gentle kiss into his dark strands. The boy shook beneath him. He cupped the back of his head with one hand and used the other to rub slow circles into his back.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

As Frodo trembled and whispered weak mutterings into his scuffed knees, Bilbo glanced towards the mantel, the fingers of security stretching out to-

A weak gasp left his lungs.

And fear filled his heart.

* * *

**Thorin**

On Seven Durin Road, leaning against the wall of his bedroom, Thorin looked down upon the small pin in his fingers, admiring all its scratches and little marks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo two chapter updates in one day! Thank you all for reading! Hope you enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Feel free to leave a kudos and comment - I try to reply to every single one of them!


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